I strip my shirt off, tossing it into the shed. The change takes me mid-stride. Bones crack and reshape, a familiar, searing heat that tears through my muscles. I hit the mud on four paws, massive and lethal.
I tilt my head back and let it rip.
Awooooo-roooo.
The howl cuts through the thunder. It’s an order:Perimeter breached. Hold the line. Sound off.
I wait, ears swiveling against the rain.
Seconds later, the answer comes. A chorus of howls from the deep bayou. Remy. Beau. The twins. They’re out there. They’re watching.
I huff, steam rising from my snout. The perimeter holds. The intruder is gone.
I shift back.
The return is harder. It leaves me gasping, naked and shivering in the mud. I grab my jeans from the shed floor and yank them on, not bothering with the button.
"Jax?"
The voice is small, barely audible over the rain.
I spin around, shotgun snapping up.
Miranda stands at the top of the stairs. She’s wrapped in a yellow raincoat she must have scavenged from the hook by thedoor. It’s three sizes too big, drowning her, but her face is set in that stubborn, angular line I’m starting to recognize.
"Get back inside," I roar, the human voice scratching my throat. "I told you to stay put."
"The power is out," she yells back, descending the stairs. She’s favoring her bad leg, gripping the rail white-knuckled. "You can't secure a perimeter in the dark. You need lights."
"I can see in the dark. You can't. Go inside."
"I’m not sitting in the dark waiting for the boogeyman," she snaps. She reaches the bottom step, mud splashing her bare feet. She’s holding a heavy waterproof flashlight. "I fix things, Jax. That’s my utility. Let me fix the generator."
I stare at her. She’s soaking wet, shivering, and terrified, but she’s looking at me as if I’m the unreasonable one.
"It’s a fuel line," I say, wiping rain from my eyes. "Clean cut."
"Then it’s a splice job. I can bypass the sever if we have tubing. Or I can shorten the feed." She limps toward me, shining the light in my face. "Do you have tools, or do you just plan on growling at the engine until it starts?"
I shield my eyes, growling for real this time. "I got tools."
"Then let's go."
She points the light under the crawlspace of the cabin. "It’s down there, right?"
"It’s tight," I warn her. "And it’s wet."
"I’ve worked in crawlspaces in Chicago pre-war buildings," she says, ducking her head. "I don't care about spiders, Jax. I care about efficiency."
She crawls in.
I curse under my breath—a string of Cajun profanity that would make my Mémère wash my mouth out with soap—and follow her.
The space under the cabin is a nightmare of damp earth, rotting wood, and cobwebs. The rain blows in from the sides, turning the dirt to sludge. There’s barely enough room to sit up.
Miranda is already at the generator housing, the flashlight clamped between her teeth. She’s wrestling with the casing.
"Hold this," she mumbles around the plastic, handing me the light.
